


Gently, Gently

by Zaxal



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Banter, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Post-Season/Series 04, Sex Magic, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: For Kinktober Day 10: Hair-pulling / Waxplay / Bonds (Telepathic or Empathic)





	Gently, Gently

“Relax,” Eliot says with a languid smile. Black curls fall between his face and the candles by the bedside, casting tiger-stripe shadows across his face. He’s so handsome, Quentin can hardly stand it, but he’s held fast by supple leather cuffs, specially ordered from the best leatherworker in the kingdom and hand-made right here in Fillory.

Quentin tries not to think of Fen in moments like these for very obvious reasons, but he really does have to thank her for these someday when he can think about the sex he has with Eliot while talking to his wife without feeling like he’s going to burst into flames. It’s not a secret; they have her explicit permission with regards to each other, just as she has Eliot’s blessing when it comes to Margo and Josh.

Once the magic in Fillory learned about consent, it had started to change, though it would probably take longer than the rest of their lives for the Fillorian culture to adjust.

Eliot’s hands are gentle on his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. “Am I failing to entertain you, my king?”

Quentin feels his face warm and dick throb at the title, at the near reverence in Eliot’s voice, which is completely at odd with the smirk Eliot gives him when he tries to stammer out a coherent response. “N— no, of course not, I— I—”

“You were miles away,” Eliot says. A hand moves from Quentin’s cheek to the nape of his neck, fitting like a glove against the spot that makes him feel _safe_ and _loved_ by Eliot alone. Eliot’s kiss is soft and warm, his body sturdy as it slides on top of Quentin’s, blanketing him. When the hand moves from his neck, Quentin makes a soft, disappointed noise. Eliot kisses him again as he rests his fingers in the hollow of Quentin’s throat, tracing the line of his collarbone.

“Not anymore,” Quentin breathes in the space between them.

“Good. I’d hate to think of what I’d have to do to get your attention.”

Quentin flushes because he wouldn’t hate that at all. Neither of them would. Teeth and tongue and _pressure_ in all the right places would turn Quentin into a babbling mess of nerves with love bites all over his erogenous zones. But tonight, he doesn’t feel like holding out. He doesn’t feel like playing a part.

He wants to be honest and open, but that’s dangerous territory, because what he says is: “Are you sure about this?”

“I am,” Eliot says easily. But his expression sobers for just a moment. “Are you?”

Eliot treats him as if he’s as fragile as glass, easily shattered and unable to be put back together without leaving cracks where he had once broken. That isn’t to say that they don’t play rough because there are times… Oh, there are times when he crushes Quentin against a wall or over a desk, claiming rough and hard while Quentin sees stars. There are times when Eliot draws it tortuously out until Quentin’s crying and trembling from the pure force of his need, and when he comes, it feels like time stops.

But even in the midst of their roughest fucks, Quentin has known that Eliot would stop if Quentin needed him to.

And part of that certainty comes from moments like this. “Yeah. Just.” He manages a small huff of a laugh. “Be gentle?”

It feels ridiculous to ask, but Eliot breathes against his lips, “As you wish.” He presses forward to kiss him, licking into Quentin’s mouth without hesitation. One hand cups that special place on his neck while the other moves to the bedside table. The mortar is already full of the spell components prepared ahead of time, and the ingredients’ scent punches sharply through the smell of the one vanilla-scented candle that Eliot ordered online last time they were on Earth. It’s apparently enchanted, though Eliot wouldn’t say for what.

Eliot leans back on his heels, bringing the mortar to rest on Quentin’s chest. His other hand dips long, dexterous fingers into the bowl, coating themselves in the clear fluid. It reminds Quentin of the Trials, the Secrets magic that he and Alice had performed before turning into geese. Eliot rubs his hands together and draws identical lines from Quentin’s temples down to his jawline. Two fingers trace down Quentin’s neck, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, trying not to fidget. Eliot coats his hands again and smooths the spell along Quentin’s collarbones.

It starts to dry. The fluid is viscous, sticky, and it pulls slightly at his skin. Eliot repeats the spell on himself before settling the mortar back on the bedside table. Hands move in quick flourishes, sparks dancing between his fingers before being swallowed by the soft candlelight.

The air takes on a sudden, sharp quality, as if Quentin has stepped outside a warm mountainside cabin into the thin, cool air closer to the clouds. His heart flutters in his chest.

“Q?” Eliot asks, expression strangely serious.

His calm air helps soothe Quentin’s nerves, but he still feels jittery, uncertain.

“We can stop if you need to.”

Quentin chews his bottom lip, looking up at Eliot. The things he feels for him… It feels like a disservice to call them ‘love’. Quentin has loved many things and people in his life, but none compare to Eliot. It brings out the best in him. He takes a shaky breath, swallows, and speaks:

“I’m all good, daddy.”

Eliot’s pupils blow open wide, and Quentin can feel the rush that heats Eliot’s entire body alongside his own flush of embarrassment.

His ‘best’ happens to include teasing his partner because he can, because he knows Eliot likes it.

Eliot’s smirk is feral. “You little brat,” he breathes, one hand fisting in Quentin’s hair, pulling his head back while he crushes their lips together in a searing kiss.

It takes a moment for Quentin to adjust to the feelings and sensations that slot neatly next to his own before the edges part and they slide together, shuffling until it’s hard for Quentin to tell if the sensations of hair being pulled, the cuffs around wrists, and a warm body on top of him are actually his, or if his hand has silky strands wound around its fingers, his teeth scraping over a lower lip, body beneath him trembling.

“Mmh,” Eliot hums, and the hand in Quentin’s hair tightens. His movements, already so limited, are even more controlled. The sting runs from the pinpricks of his scalp down his body which arches into Eliot’s. Quentin feels the impulse to grind down that Eliot at last indulges in, hips moving obscenely over Quentin’s own. “You really like that, don’t you.” It’s more observation than question, Eliot taking in the tantalizing skin just beneath Quentin’s jaw. There’s no hesitation between impulse and fulfillment. He sees what he wants and takes, the decision made so swiftly that Quentin hardly has time to add his own input.

Everything — his body, his feelings, his experience — is owned in this moment by Eliot, and it brings Quentin to breathlessness even as a moan wheezes out of his lungs. He never thought he’d want someone to experience him like this, always thought of his entire existence as an affliction, but Eliot takes it without complaint, without drawing attention to the shadows lurking in the corners with confidence that Quentin will do the same for him.

“Q, breathe,” Eliot reminds him, nuzzling the column of his throat as Quentin gasps for air, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

“Love you, god, I love you,” he says between ragged pulls of air.

“I know,” Eliot says gently. The acknowledgment isn’t cruel or withholding. Quentin can _feel_ how Eliot loves him, a deep, burning passion that extends beyond lust — though there’s plenty of that to go around as well. It’s a sense of comfort and trust born out of fifty years of cohabitation. Trust that Quentin will tell him what he needs, trust that Quentin will take care of him as much as he desperately desires to take care of Quentin.

Ever since Quentin inadvertently forced his body through the worst of the withdrawals while Eliot wasn’t behind the wheel to ride out the worst of it, Eliot hasn’t wanted drugs that keep him out of his mind. He hasn’t wanted to be so drunk that the next few days are blurs at best. Eliot has an addictive personality, and somehow, _somehow_ , Quentin has managed to replace all of his desire to run from himself with the need for Quentin.

If this is his newest vice, he will indulge until Quentin can’t bear it anymore, but Quentin has shown no indication of ever wanting to stop.

“Do you always think this much when we’re having sex?” Quentin asks with a soft laugh.

“You’re one to talk,” Eliot teases, nose traveling over Quentin’s skin and feeling how his dick throbs. He thrives under Eliot’s attention, arching instantly into any touch like a plant turning to face the sun. When Eliot leans back, sitting on his heels again, Quentin whines, tugging against the cuffs as he tries to follow, instantly missing the warm weight of him. Eliot reaches for the bedside table again, pushing the mortar out of the way to pluck a candle out of the collection. It’s not the enchanted vanilla candle, but its purpose doesn’t require magic to use.

As Eliot brings it closer, the shadows flicker away from his face, exposing him fully to the light. His bright eyes gleam with mischief and adoration, and his free hand slides down the unmarred stretch of Quentin’s torso. “Ready?”

Quentin’s head jerks in a few quick nods, and he watches with fascination as Eliot tips the candle just so, drops of white wax falling to land on Quentin’s skin. He thought he was hot before, but oh, how wrong he had been. A gasp catches in his throat, eyes closing as he savors the burning kisses that dry on his skin. Over him, Eliot’s breath stutters, and Quentin forces his eyes open.

Eliot’s head bows forward, lips parted as he savors what Quentin feels. What he’s doing to Quentin. His eyes open like his lids carry a strange, heavy weight, and they focus slowly on Quentin’s as he tips the candle again, pulling it away from Quentin’s body so that the first droplets are searing hot and those that follow, pattering on his skin, seem as intense as the first through memory alone.

Quentin’s back comes off the bed, the leather around his wrists creaking. “Too much?” Eliot asks, tone light as his other hand skates up Quentin’s body, easing him back onto the mattress. He takes a moment to circle one of his nipples, rolling it between his fingers until Quentin’s fighting back soft noises of want and complaint.

The answer lies unspoken, but Quentin can feel how badly Eliot wants him to admit it, how he wants to hear it. The fact that Eliot _likes_ hearing him is something he’s still not used to. He shakes his head, “N— Not enough.”

“Mm,” Eliot considers, twisting and tugging until Quentin feels another whine building in his chest.

“ _El_ ,” he demands which pulls a smirk onto Eliot’s lips.

“I can feel how hot this makes you,” he murmurs, not caring enough to avoid the pun as he slides his hand down Quentin’s abs, following with the candle, teasing drops. “How much you _like_ —” he lowers his hand, a hot splash connecting with Quentin’s belly as he keeps speaking without so much as a pause to breathe, “—being tied down, taken apart.”

“I— I—” Quentin can’t catch his breath. Concern flickers over Eliot’s face, but Quentin is not having them stop now. “I can feel how f _ffucking_ smug you are.”

“Mm? Is that all?”

There’s a vague feeling that’s been nagging at Quentin since Eliot proposed the spell, but he didn’t have confirmation. Not until now, when he _feels_ Eliot’s excitement, both as he tips the candle, and as the sensation of wax sears lovingly on Quentin’s skin. A pleased shiver ripples over his skin every time, breath catching.

Quentin doesn’t have all the answers, but he knows exactly enough about Eliot and Eliot during sex to make an educated guess. “You want this to be you.”

In the blink of an eye, the tension in the room shifts. It’s no longer the anticipation of the next patter of wax or wondering how long they can hold out before needing to slide their skin together, kiss, come. There’s a vulnerability in Eliot’s expression that he tries to wipe away, replacing it with a charming smile that Quentin’s seen too many times before to believe. And then there’s the feeling of unease. A gnawing worry that Quentin can’t tell which of them feels it first, but the empathic feedback loop they’re currently sharing has it magnified in moments from a silly worry to something that could be catastrophic.

The pain is just pain without the love behind it, and, for better or worse, the game is over. Quentin’s fingers tut, and the cuffs come undone in a quick flicker of magic. He sits up slowly, wincing at the ache. “Hey,” he says softly, aware that it means nothing and everything, attempting to bridge the gap.

“Hey,” Eliot says, the false smile fading as he sets the candle back on the bedside table.

Quentin desperately wants to kiss him, and Eliot desperately wants to be kissed, but neither of them make the move. This is something that needs to be talked about. Some pains can’t be kissed away.

“Are you hurt?” Eliot asks softly.

“No. God, no; I would’ve told you if it really hurt.” Another gnawing worry, definitely Eliot’s this time. Quentin can’t help but sound hurt. “If you don’t trust me, then what are we doing here?”

“I do trust you. With my life, with my— with my _everything_ ,” Eliot says, the sincerity in his voice as palpable in this intimate space as what he hasn’t said.

“It’s me.”

“Q,” Eliot starts, apologetic, but Quentin’s shaking his head.

“You don’t trust me with _me_.” He glances over at the mortar. “Is— Is that what the spell was _for_?”

“No. I— I know you would assert your limits. I know.” He grimaces. “Fears aren’t logical. They’re… stupid and biased and a gut reaction based on _nothing_.”

The elephant they’ve been circling can’t be ignored for too much longer. “But you worry.”

“Of course I do. So do you.”

“I have anxiety,” Quentin says with a small smile. “What’s your excuse?”

“Trauma,” Eliot deadpans.

The nameless thing swells between them. “We should—” Eliot starts, bringing his hands up to undo the spell binding them together, but Quentin catches them.

“No. I— I want you to feel it. Everything I feel, when I say what I’m going to say. Okay?”

Eliot looks uncertain, eyes darting for a moment across the features of Quentin’s face before finally, reluctantly, settling. “Okay.”

“We might not work out.” The words feel like a punch to the gut or worse. Eliot bows his head from the force of it, breath catching hard in his chest, and Quentin squeezes his hands to help him get through it. “This — now that we’re somewhere different, living a different life, we could… What we both want or need might not match up. It happens. We don’t exactly have a mosaic tying us to each other.”

“Please tell me there’s an upside to this,” Eliot says, his voice ragged.

“I mean, I— I think so. Because if we don’t, for, for whatever reason… You’re too important for me to lose. Okay? We could have the messiest breakup in the combined histories of Fillory and Earth, and I would still need you — I would still _want you_ — in my life. And as long as you want me in yours, we’ll always have each other.”

Eliot raises his eyes slowly, head following until he’s looking at Quentin evenly. His eyes are wet, and his throat bobs as he swallows back the nameless dread that had been floating in and out of their entire group ever since the Mirror World. Quentin still remembers the decision vividly, the mirror becoming whole in an instant, the jar and Everett flying towards the Seam. Him, running. The heat of sparks dancing along his body. He slammed into the hallway only to have his hoodie grabbed by Penny and hauled towards the exit, all while Alice and Penny both yelled at him for what he’d done.

Quentin had sat before all of them, some individually and some in groups, and he’d promised. Never again. Never, ever again. No offers of sacrifice like Blackspire, no foolhardy attempts at heroism like the Seam. He was back on his meds, Josh was almost always available in Fillory if Quentin needed help shouldering the load — Josh was a great listener — and Quentin had a therapist who was also a Magician on Earth with whom he had appointments every month. The time fluctuations meant that for Quentin, it could be days between sessions or an entire season, but Penny had always been willing to come get him when the date rolled around in the other world.

“It’s going to be a long life, too,” Eliot says as if this is a negotiation, or as if he can command Quentin in a way that matters — and he absolutely _can_ but it has nothing to do with royal authority or seniority and everything to do with the fact that Quentin has promised Eliot the same thing. They’re both going to die old and in their sleep, and if either of them fucks that up, the other has permission to travel to the Underworld and drag them back from the waiting room to do the rest of their time. “You’re going to be 100 years old and absolutely sick of me.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Eliot finally smiles faintly, tired and genuine. The silence that hangs in the air is comfortable until Eliot clears his throat and confesses, “You were right, though.”

“About—?”

“As much as I love taking you apart, sometimes…” He shrugs. “Being able to give up that power — it’s nice.”

“I could do that for you.”

“Quentin. I love you, but you’re the most submissive man I’ve ever met in my entire life. One of the servants asked you last week why you were standing in the corridor to the kitchen, and you apologized and went to our room.”

“In— In my defense, y’know, she was very intimidating.”

“We could try,” Eliot concedes. “But if it doesn’t work… this? Being able to experience it _with_ you? It’s freeing for me. I like it.”

He ponders, “So, you’re okay with topping yourself.”

Eliot’s smiling even as he says, “I swear to all the gods that I’ve killed with my own two hands, if you turn this into the ‘is fucking your clone ethical’ thing again—”

Quentin laughs. He can’t help it. It bursts out of him, his heart full to the brim with everything that he feels for Eliot. Fifty years and so much more.

Eliot desperately wants to kiss him, and Quentin desperately wants to be kissed. He closes the distance between them, and Eliot’s hand slides to cup his neck.

The annoyance of the long-debated question fades into the conglomerate of things Eliot feels for Quentin. Affection, adoration, worry, concern, familiarity, home, love. _Love_.

Quentin can’t help the moan that slips from his lips when they part for air, gasping before diving back in as if this point of connection is more vital to them than oxygen itself. “If we’re done talking—”

“So done with talking,” Quentin agrees breathlessly, capturing Eliot’s lips in another desperate kiss.

“I’d like to fuck you.”

“You’d like,” Quentin gasps as Eliot grinds down against him, as they both throb for more, “to _make love_ to me.”

For the first time since Eliot activated the spell, Quentin feels him flush, feeling, for a moment, dizzyingly out of his well-worn comfort zone. Kinky sex with his boyfriend in his marital bed? It must be a day ending in ‘y’. Quentin referring to sex as love-making, and Eliot realizing that it’s _true_? His heart gives a giddy leap, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“Now who’s insufferably smug?” Eliot murmurs, sliding down Quentin’s body until he can pull Quentin’s legs over his own. Quentin tries to wrap his legs around him but fights back a whine when Eliot nudges his legs apart. “Good boy,” Eliot says, unfairly, smirking wider when it’s Quentin’s turn to flush red, dick twitching at the praise.

The drawer of the table opens, and a bottle of lube (from Earth, thanks) flies from the drawer to Eliot’s hand. He warms the bottle with a few quick movements of his hands, and Quentin tries not to wriggle impatiently when Eliot teases a slick finger around his rim before pressing in. Quentin closes his eyes, easing the tension constantly wound up in his body as Eliot _reaches_ with the promise of more.

He’s doing this just to wind Quentin up, and, fuck him, it works. It always works. It makes him immediately want more, but Eliot shushes him softly. Quentin can feel Eliot’s eyes on him, the raw affection when Quentin’s doing _nothing_.

“Wrong,” Eliot says gently as he pulls his finger back before adding another. “You’re opening up for me. You’re on display,” his free hand slides on one of Quentin’s thighs, raking his nails lightly back down while Quentin covers his face with his hands, moaning as he arches into it. “Putting on the prettiest show, Q.”

A laugh squeezes out of his chest, the heat from before settled all the way down to his bones, and his face must be bright red. It’s not embarrassment, not humiliation; the feeling it _is_ seems harder to name than the things it isn’t.

Part of it is disbelief. Eliot is one of the hottest people Quentin’s ever seen in his life, and for some reason, he chose Quentin. He _chose_ — Quentin cries out as Eliot’s fingers curl inside of him, pressing and rubbing until Quentin’s arched off the bed, jaw hanging slack.

For the first time in his life, he can feel Eliot’s adoration, attraction. Quentin can feel Eliot deciding which buttons to push, well-worn patterns that bring out exactly what he wants from Quentin. It sinks in, then, the way it hadn’t before. Eliot knows him inside and out, figuratively and literally, and he _chose Quentin_.

It’s too much. “Eliot, Eliot,” Quentin murmurs.

“Soon, baby.”

_“Please.”_

Eliot’s long fingers slide out of him only to be coated with more lube; then three slide in. Quentin thrusts down on them, clenching around them promisingly. He needs Eliot inside him. He needs the intimacy of Eliot’s body covering his. He needs and needs and _needs_ , and Eliot _knows_.

“Let me see you,” Eliot says, his voice low. Quentin keeps his face mostly covered, eyes clamped shut. “Don’t make me put you back in the cuffs.” It’s an offer, and Quentin’s tempted to take him up on it. But the thought of sliding his hands through Eliot’s hair, down his back, pulling his closer so he can kiss him — he wants that more. Reluctantly, he pulls his hands off his face and places them on the bed, peering up at Eliot and wetting his mouth.

He can _feel_ Eliot’s cock twitch when he looks at Quentin’s lips.

“Some other day,” Eliot says almost wistfully. He splays his fingers inside Quentin, and Quentin’s hands curl in the bedding, trying to ground himself. “So hot, so _ready_ for me.”

Quentin chokes back a desperate noise as Eliot slides his fingers free and busies himself with slicking his own dick.

It’s hard to behave himself, but, in the end, all the wordless pleading for more would only make this take longer.

The blunt head of Eliot’s cock presses against his hole, and it seems as though the world goes still in anticipation.

Eliot’s voice is annoyingly steady, “Want to know about the vanilla candle?”

The look Quentin gives him is more eloquent than his current number of words. Eliot’s smile softens and he presses in.

Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed. His body stretches for Eliot, accommodating his girth slowly. The spell makes him feel his own body as Eliot sinks into it slowly, the inviting heat. Quentin’s hands scramble on the bed before Eliot catches one, lacing their fingers together. His other hand is solid on Quentin’s hip, helping keep him still while Eliot’s hips make minute adjustments. Soon, he’s slid the entire way home, and Quentin’s thighs are trembling, hips hitching as he struggles with the desire for more, Eliot, _now_.

A breathless noise coaxes Quentin’s eyes open. Over him, Eliot looks like a work of art. His hair curls down almost to his chin, lips parted just so. When his eyes blink open, they’re hooded, raking over Quentin possessively as he slides back and thrusts in again. Quentin’s throat bobs as he swallows, and he tries so hard to find the words to break the tension.

Eliot manages first. “Q,” he breathes like a prayer, like the moment is held together with gossamer that will tear apart with the slightest pressure.

Quentin reaches up with shaking hands, cupping Eliot’s face and pulling him into a soft kiss. Eliot rolls his hips, and they gasp together when the movement slides perfectly over the spot that makes Quentin see stars. “Ff _fuck_ , El.”

Eliot feels around for a moment, like he’s internally groping about in the dark for the right thing to say. “No,” he says finally, rocking into Quentin again. “Love. Remember?”

Love. _Love. Eliot’s making love to him._ The words are like sparks to kindling, and Quentin feels the fire fanning to life inside his chest. “Eliot,” he breathes, hands tangling in his hair and pulling him close. Another kiss, more heated, urgent, one or both of them moaning into their shared air. “Eliot, please—”

“I’m here,” he promises. “I’ve got you.”

The words are in a familiar cadence, and Quentin feels like he’s heard them a million times. Maybe he has. Across the 50 years in the Mosaic timeline, in the quiet moments after Quentin promised never to repeat what he did in the Mirror World, in the gray dawns when he would wake up in a cold sweat while thinking of the Monster’s hands on him.

If he has heard the words a million times, he wants to hear them a million times more. He wants the promise of it carved into his heart so he can never forget.

The fingers at Eliot’s nape curl as Quentin bucks up. His dick slides against Eliot’s stomach, and Quentin shudders.

“I can make you feel better,” Eliot murmurs, nosing up Quentin’s jawline.

“Please,” he breathes. His hips hitch into one of Eliot’s thrusts, and it’s his turn to feel Eliot tremble, restraint wavering. It feels so good, giving and receiving, that Quentin’s soon moving to meet Eliot’s lazy, intimate rhythm.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh is punctuated by those small noises that neither of them can contain. Gasps, grunts, moans. Breathless laughs when Eliot squeezes the bottle of lube too hard, splashes ending on on Quentin’s wax-splattered torso.

“Thought you went off on me for a second,” Eliot teases.

Quentin makes a small and admittedly bitchy noise of protest. “I’m not that quick.”

Eliot presses his smirk into his skin right as his slick hand wraps around Quentin’s cock. “I could probably make you.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

Eliot’s fist begins a slow glide in time with his body. “Next time,” he promises with a nip to Quentin’s ear. “Right now, I want to feel you _just_ like this.” He squeezes Quentin’s dick, the stroke slow and _good_ and Quentin throws his head back, squeezing around Eliot.

“Nnh,” Eliot catches himself, trying to smother his own groan.

He can admit that he likes hearing Quentin, but he still has a hard time letting go of his meticulous control.

“God, Q,” Eliot breathes, warm and damp over Quentin’s throat. Quentin no sooner wishes that Eliot would claim him there, too, than there are teeth nipping at his skin, lips and tongue moving to coax a bruise to the surface as Eliot’s hips move with increasing urgency.

Quentin arches up into Eliot. His breath is coming faster, dick throbbing in Eliot’s hand. There’s only so much he can do in his current position except wind Eliot’s curls around his fingers, his other hand going around to his back, hand splayed as he pulls Eliot closer as if he can’t stand the air between them.

Eliot’s not able to pull back for more elaborate thrusts, but he doesn’t want to. Rocking his hips is more than satisfying enough, dick sliding back in increments before pushing forward again. Quentin is hot and tight around him, but as hot as it is, _this_ is hotter. Quentin loses himself in it. He stops thinking, stops worrying, and sinks straight into feeling. His body restlessly searches for more stimulation, his lips either bitten red or allowing every desperate noise to tear itself out of him.

He wants to come. He also wants to stay here, right here, beneath Eliot and taking everything Eliot chooses to give him like he can never get enough.

Eliot purrs into Quentin’s ear, “Want to know about the candle?”

Quentin shivers as Eliot’s dick slides over his prostate again, relentless pressure making him feel like this will end all-too soon. “If I — fuck, Q—” Eliot forces himself to slow, leaning back enough that he can look at Quentin’s eyes, his pupils blown out. His lips quiver as he whines, wanting Eliot back against him, and Eliot shushes him gently. “Soon, baby. Soon, just—” He swallows thickly. “If I activate the enchantment, neither of us will be able to come until the candle’s blown out. We could do this,” he thumbs the slit of Quentin’s cock while Quentin moves his hips down, taking more for himself, “for hours. All night.”

Quentin stares up at Eliot, something in his expression making Eliot need to protect him, take care of him. Quentin becomes aware that he doesn’t know how often his own vulnerabilities show. “S’that what you want?” he asks, voice already wrecked.

“I want to give you what you want.”

Quentin, so used to being the one to twist himself around to accommodate everyone else, bites his lip again, searching Eliot’s face, searching for an answer.

“I’ll be happy like this,” Eliot murmurs, rolling his hips again to pull Quentin out of his head. “Or I’ll be happy like that. Just tell me.”

Quentin’s resolve hardens into steel. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. But—” He takes a shaking breath. “You gotta let me put it out.”

Eliot smirks. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I get to decide when I’ve had enough. B— But if you need to tap out before then—”

“Oh, Q. That won’t happen.”

Quentin presses on, “ _If it does_ , you have to tell _me_. And I’ll blow it out.”

Eliot finally puts two and two together. Quentin wants to be in control. Quentin wants to prove he can take care of them both, if the power is put in his hands. Quentin can feel the click of everything aligning in Eliot’s head before he reluctantly lets go of Quentin’s dick in order to twist his fingers to activate the enchantment.

Immediately, the pressure eases. The primal, desperate urge is still there, but it’s not so all-consuming that ignoring it is going to drive Quentin insane.

Not yet, anyway.

“How’s that?” Eliot asks, leaning back over Quentin, hands braced on the bed.

“Good. You?”

“Annoying,” Eliot admits airily. “But _so_ worth it.”

“Yeah?” The tension in Quentin’s shoulders eases, his lips splitting into a grin.

“Mm, I have you all to myself,” Eliot leans in, lips teasing over Quentin’s as he rocks into him again. “Luckiest ex-king in Fillory.”

“K— King Consort,” Quentin corrects. Eliot raises an eyebrow. “Margo’s High King, and she made Fen a Queen; you’re still technically married.”

Quentin feels something wicked shoot through Eliot’s mind, but before he can grasp the shape of it, Eliot breathes against his lips, “I’d rather be _your_ consort, my king.”

The same heat from before overwhelms him, but this time, Eliot can feel it. Quentin braces himself for teasing, but Eliot cups the spot on his neck, pulling him into a kiss that instantly deepens. Quentin squirms a little under the sheer force of Eliot’s fondness, his love for him, but Eliot has him pinned in place — in more ways than one — and he’s not going to let Quentin go that easily.

Eliot nips his lip as Quentin’s breathing shudders. Images flash like lightning through his head: Eliot laying tiles, Eliot curled around him in bed with his head pillowed on Quentin’s chest, Eliot in a bed in the infirmary when his eyes finally open and his hand reaches without thinking towards Quentin as if magnetized to him.

“Mine?” he asks, understanding but still doubting, still—

“Yours,” Eliot murmurs. “On Earth, in Fillory. Wherever we go.”

Quentin bucks with a bitten-off moan. His hands fly to Eliot’s back, fingers digging almost painfully in as he urges him to go faster.

Eliot gasps breathlessly, burying his head against the crook of Quentin’s neck as his pace stutters. Quentin loses himself in how good it all feels, the impatience both of them have even though the night’s just begun.

“I’m all yours,” Eliot reminds him, leaning up to nip his ear as his hips find a slow, easy rhythm again.

Quentin realizes faintly just how long of a night it’s going to be. He can’t help himself but moan, moving with Eliot in this well-rehearsed harmony.

He can’t wait.


End file.
